


Underneath It All

by Mysenia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Creeper Peter, Dark, Dark Stiles, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Non-Consensual Soulbond, Out of Character Stiles Stilinski, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Slash, Sex Magic, Spark Claudia Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 07:45:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysenia/pseuds/Mysenia
Summary: Peter always poked at a problem until it unravelled itself before his very eyes, never listening to the alarm bells that sometimes went off in his head. He likely should have heeded them this time.





	Underneath It All

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: implied/referenced child abuse, dark themes, inappropriate erections and orgasms, non-con bonds and Stiles is a wee bit OOC in this.
> 
> Didn't think I was going to get anything done for Steter Week but managed to finish up this WIP that I've had sitting in my gdocs for awhile. It took a turn I wasn't expecting but I like it.

It’s one of those situations that really should not have happened and yet the inevitability of it was quite predictable - if only the usual casualties were not also involved. Peter sighed as he surveyed the mess of hunters around them, bodies strewn about in marionette like poses. He really did enjoy the sight.

Peter took in a deep breath, inhaling the scents of pain and fear - of the blood of his enemies - before letting it out on a quiet exhale as he turned. The pack were dotted here and there doing their part to clear up the mess.

He took the time to run his eyes over everyone, taking in the fading cuts on the wolves and the lingering bruises on the humans. Nothing extreme from what Peter could tell so he went to work tidying up the bodies near himself.

It did not take long to gather the bodies together and line them up to burn. Stiles laid down a mountain ash line to contain the ash from the bodies and it was not long before the pack were able to rake the ash into the dirt, leaving behind only land that looked like it had been freshly tilled. It was the work of mere moments to scatter some flower seeds and water the ground. Peter found it poetic that the humans who were slavering for the packs death only hours before were now going to be the building blocks upon which new life grew.

He turned away and headed for his car, intending to skedaddle before the pack could rope him into any more bonding time. He would have been home free, he always reacted better to these situations than anyone else, if he were not stopped by his own curiosity.

Though Stiles had been integral in covering up the bodies, Peter was only now noticing the tense lines of his body. Stiles held himself as if there were something seriously wrong but Peter could not detect any hint of pain in his smell beyond what would be expected of that of a few bruises.

Peter surreptitiously stepped around Scott and Derek, sidestepping his way until he was only a few feet away from Stiles and tried scenting him again. This time the smell of blood flooded Peter’s nose and he squinted at Stiles, trying to locate the source.

He found it in the ever growing dark patch of Stiles’ black hoodie - Stiles’ concession to stealth - but Peter still could not detect the pain Stiles should be feeling from what was clearly a serious wound. Peter stepped closer still and that’s when the faint smell of gunpowder hit his nose and, for the first time since the fire, Peter was well and truly surprised.

Stiles had been shot, up close going by the smell, and yet he was acting as if it was nothing. Not just in his body language but in his smell which was not something one could mask very easily, especially when under duress.

Peter stepped closer, _he just had to know_.

Reaching out quietly, he touched a finger to the sliver of skin visible at Stiles’ wrist, opened his senses, and _pulled_.

* * *

Needless to say, Peter was not going to be making that mistake again. 

Stiles had not taken too kindly to Peter’s handsy-pain-drain-thing (Stiles’ words) and because Peter had been quite literally thrown out of sorts due to the level of pain he had received from Stiles, it allowed the spark to lay a wounding kick to the inside of Peter’s upper right thigh--the thigh because Peter had managed to dodge the kick at the last minute. 

Never let it be said that Stiles would not use every weapon available to defend himself.

The commotion had had the unfortunate effect of drawing the attention of the rest of the pack and they had all immediately stepped in to protect Stiles. The only upside to the entire situation, beyond Peter’s gained knowledge of Stiles’ pain tolerance, was that he was able to point out the _bullet wound_ Stiles had sustained.

That revelation had quite stymied the packs fervor and they had clambered around Stiles until he had grudgingly agreed to be taken to Melissa. A small mercy to Peter as it gave him the opportunity to do what he’d intended before Stiles had caught his eye, and make for home.

As he drove home Peter kept shaking out his right wrist, the tingling after-effects of lingering pain still bothering him. It was a revelation, one that stumped him in ways Peter had long ago learned were rarities for him; he had done too much to really be shocked or surprised by anything.

The fact that a human, _147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones_ by his own account, could stand the kind of debilitating pain that would have even a grown werewolf wincing outwardly at the pain, _well_. Add to that that the pain was still shocking Peter’s fingertips and it certainly garnered his full attention.

He pulled up to his apartment building and pulled out his phone as he went inside. There were a number of texts from Derek updating him on Stiles’ injuries. Not only did Stiles have the gunshot wound but apparently he had also managed to receive a number of cuts and bruises that were, in the grand scheme of things, irrelevant. 

One day Peter would impress upon Derek the necessity for not stressing over the minor details but today was not that day.

No, today Peter was filled with a burning desire to crack open Stiles’ nervous system and dig in. Cut him open and delve into the physiology that allowed a seemingly breakable human the ability to shrug off a wound that would have had other, much more thoroughly trained persons, writhing on the floor gasping for air.

The buzzing of his phone pulled Peter out of his thoughts.

**Nephew: Stiles is in surgery. The bullet wound was worse than it looked.**

Peter huffed and rolled his eyes. Of course the wound was worse than it looked, he sighed at the stupidity of the comment. No human could be shot and just be fine. He took the time to count to five before looking back at Derek’s messages.

**Nephew: The Sheriff is here and demanding answers. He’s not happy.**

Understatement of the year, that one would be. Peter could only imagine the hangdog look Derek would be sporting in the face of the Sheriff’s ire. The obvious puppy love his nephew held for the man was revolting.

Peter smiled cruelly at the knowledge that this would set Derek back in his wooing of the older man. 

_Perfect_.

**Nephew: He wants to know why we did not call for backup. And why Stiles did not have more cover. And why the Argent’s were not present to smooth things over since this was a group of hunters.**

It was rather typical that Derek was turning to him when presented with a problem. His nephew tried to fight against their familial relationship all the time but when push came to shove it was almost a guarantee that he would look to Peter for help.

_Peter: Stiles is old enough to make his own decisions and, consequently, is also old enough to take responsibility for his actions. Did you tell the good Sheriff that we did not call for backup as it really was rather a last minute get together, and thus we did not have time to be courteous and extend the invitation to the not-to-be-trusted Argents or the in-the-dark officers of the law._

**Nephew: In not so many words.**

**__** _Peter: Of course, you’ve always been so verbose._

Peter put his phone down after that, ignoring any more incoming messages because he really had better things to do than listen to Derek whine about the Sheriff.

* * *

Stiles ended up in recovery at the hospital for a month, not because he needed to be there that long but because it was the only way to insure that Stiles did nothing stupid to reopen his surgical wounds.

Peter will admit to spending more hours with the young spark than absolutely necessary. He just had too many questions and theories about Stiles and what better way to sate his curiosity than to observe Stiles at the source. It meant being subject to incessant ramblings and muttered death threats but as it lead to more amusement, Peter found he really did not mind all that much.

One might even say he was fond.

“I need to pee.”

Peter did not even bother to feign his revulsion at Stiles.

“And you felt the need to share that, why?” Peter asked, raising a brow at the young man currently splayed out on a hospital bed.

“Do you have any idea how much it hurts to move right now?” Stiles asked with a glare sent Peter’s way for good measure.

“I do believe I have been shot before, yes, so I can say that I do know.” Peter smirked at Stiles.

“Ass.” Stiles grumbled. “I fucking need help moving to the bathroom. Are you happy now?”

Peter let a full smile bloom on his face. “See, now, that was not so hard.”

Peter watched as Stiles sat up, his face grimacing, and it made Peter wonder at the level of pain he had to be feeling. Stiles was hooked up to an IV that gave him regular access to drugs that should have numbed most, if not all, of the pain currently making itself known through the faces that Stiles was making.

Peter leaned down and grabbed Stiles underneath his armpits, lifting the younger man slowly as Stiles gripped tightly at his shoulders.

“Why are you even fucking here?” Stiles asked around a huff.

“Well I certainly don’t have to be helping you.” Peter said as he took a step back and dropped his arms.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Stiles yelped out as he stumbled forward on unstable feet, his hands never letting go on the white-knuckled grip they had of Peter’s shirt. “Jeez, sorry for offending your delicate sensibilities.”

Peter rolled his eyes before stepped to the side and wrapping an arm around Stiles’ back while his other arm he held out in front of Stiles so that the spark could cling to it as they ambled towards the bathroom.

Peter was tempted, had to grit his teeth to keep from acting, as he carried most of Stiles’ weight to the bathroom. Every flash of bare skin drew his gaze like a siren. 

They reached the doorway and Peter waited as Stiles deliberated his next move.

Of course, he could not help but add in his two cents worth. “And will you need help peeing as well, princess?”

Peter drank in the sight of Stiles ducking his head to the side, unwittingly baring a lovely expanse of pale neck to his gaze, as Stiles grumbled the affirmative.

Peter grinned widely at the back of Stiles’ head. “I’d be delighted.”

Peter had to quickly hide his glee at the situation as Stiles whipped his head around to level a rather intimidating look for someone currently dressed in a hospital gown and needing help moving.

“Don’t think I’m not on to you, Peter. I may currently be an invalid but do not for one second forget that I can lay you up flat with the flick of a wrist.” Stiles threatened.

Peter bowed his head meekly, not letting his mirth show in his eyes, as he helped Stiles the last few feet to the toilet. Amidst a lot of cursing, on Stiles’ part, they managed to get him settled onto the toilet and Peter turned back to close the door.

He stayed with his back to the door to allow for privacy, what little of it there was for someone stuck in a small room with a werewolf. Aside from the trickle of sound that was urine hitting water, the sound that took up the room was Stiles’ heavy breathing.

It was laboured and coming out like Stiles was purposefully trying to control the flow so that it seemed _normal_. Interesting.

“You know, it is perfectly normal to allow your body to experience the pain you’re currently tensing in a bid to ignore it.” Peter offered though he knew Stiles would ignore the advice.

“Fuck off.”

Point proven.

“And why allow them to hook you up to needles if you’re not even going to take advantage of what I’m sure are some lovely drugs.” 

“Fuck off.”

As the sound of dripping faded, Peter turned back around to observe Stiles. “You know, you keep saying that and I will just leave you here. It would amuse me greatly to watch you struggle back to your room.”

“You want me to apologize, Peter? Well, tough shit. I’m not going to act the damsel just so you can get your rocks off. So yeah, fuck off. I can manage fine on my own.”

Peter did not bother to hide the laugh that bubbled up his throat. 

Quick as lightning he leaped forward and stroked a finger up Stiles’ neck before cupping his face and pulling just the littlest bit, taking the edge off Stiles’ pain before stepping out of reach. The outrage on Stiles’ face elated Peter and he left the bathroom with a smile on his face.

He did not need to help, and he had had his fill of Stiles for the day, so Peter thought nothing of leaving. He had never been accused of being overly helpful.

* * *

Peter was frustrated when he got home from the hospital. What little pain he had managed to drain from Stiles had not been enough to give him any kind of gage as to Stiles’ pain tolerance. Sure it had stung but as he had been expecting it given the earlier encounter, Peter did not have enough to weigh it against.

It was aggravating as his chances to experiment on Stiles were slimming down the closer the date came that the young spark would be released from the hospital. It did not help that Peter’s chances were already slim as he had to contend with the rest of the pack, plus the Sheriff and Melissa. There was not much he could do when being constantly watched like a hawk.

It was almost as if the pack did not trust him, Peter laughed to himself. If only they knew. The pinging of his phone drew Peter’s attention outward and he frowned, wondering what could possibly need his attention now.

**Nephew: Seriously, if you’re going to keep upsetting Stiles every time you come to the hospital you are going to be banned.**

**__** _Peter: Oh and you’re going to be the one to stop me I suppose? I’m shaking in my leather boots._

**Nephew: Seriously Peter, you are not funny. If you keep irritating Stiles, and by extension the Sheriff, there will be consequences!**

**__** _Peter: Exclamation points! Oh no, I’m trembling here. Whatever will I do?_

**Nephew: Just leave him the fuck alone Peter.**

Peter grunted in disgust at his nephew’s texts. The pup seriously had no idea what Peter imagined doing to him on a daily basis with his incessant whining. 

_Peter: Need I remind you that if it were not for me, your precious Sheriff’s son would likely not even be alive right now? All the thanks I’m getting is really making me rethink my reasons for helping out. Keep this up and the next time you’re in need of help I might just accidentally forget to answer my phone._

Peter tossed his phone onto the cushion beside him and ignored it as it pinged three more times. Peter had no need to sit there and take any shit from idiots like his nephew who refused to use the senses he was so lucky to be born with.

It was a wonder Derek had survived as long as he had with his inability to _see._

Pushing himself to his feet, Peter walked over to his bookshelf and browsed the titles. Though he had an idea as to what could have caused Stiles’ unspeakably high pain tolerance, he wanted to do some research.

Seriously, if only the pack knew the lengths he went to to get shit done. They were _so_ unappreciative.

The only problem with Stiles being both a spark and human was that for all his books, Peter barely had anything with which he could glean even an iota of similarities since his research up until that point was focused solely on supernatural creatures and werewolf hunters; while hunters could be technically classed as human, they were a subspecies that Peter could view as nothing less than putrid garbage. 

While Peter had looked long and hard for any kind of information on sparks the moment he had learned of Stiles’ true nature, he had not been able to find more than mentions here and there, and vague ones at that. There were not many sparks and certainly not enough to make any conclusive studies on and thus for once in his life Peter was overwhelmingly underprepared to deal with a situation.

And this was completely ignoring Stiles’ seemingly lack of ability to feel pain at a normal percentage. Was that something to do with his being a spark? Or was it perhaps, as Peter suspected, something that had followed him out of childhood?

There had been rumours, of which Peter had delved into gleefully, surrounding the youngest Stilinski and what had happened as his mother’s health continued to deteriorate. Most of it had been pure speculation but there were way too many clues to pass it all up as exaggeration of a bad situation. 

Stiles’ protectiveness of his surrogate mother and yet seeming inability to truly let himself get close to their illustrious Alpha’s mother was one big pointer. Yet another was his truly ruthless protectiveness of the Sheriff.

Peter both respected it and was extremely disgusted by it. It made him want to crack the boy open to watch his brain work, see the neuron's firing across the fibers of his nerves, follow them as they progressed all throughout the spark’s body; It made him want to break Stiles down to the marrow and destroy everything about him to see how he rebuilt himself.

Another ping filtered through to his ears and Peter peered over his shoulders to look at the source of the offending noise. He turned back to his bookshelf and grabbed the book on druids, the closest magical beings to sparks in terms of magical core, or at least that is what all his research has shown him.

He flipped through the pages as he walked back to the couch and silently snarled down at his cell phone. It was likely only his nephew continuing to whine at him but just in case it was something, or someone, more interesting he decided to pick it up.

**Nephew: Seriously Peter, the only warning you’re going to get.**

**And this is just from me, I wouldn’t go out of your way to confront the Sheriff right now.**

**The Sheriff is fingering his gun, so don’t come back.**

**__** _Peter: Really? He is fingering his gun? That’s the word you want to use? And the Sheriff? Is that what you fantasize calling him?_

_Actually, do not answer that. You’re disgusting. Keep your perversions away from me._

_What would your parents say Derek? Tut tut._

Peter could not help chuckling to himself as he thumbed through his messages for whoever had texted him before Derek. And, ah there it was, the message he had been anticipating.

** Little Spark:  ** FUCK YOU! Leave me alone Peter, I swear I will burn you alive AGAIN if you keep antagonising me.

__ _Peter: Talk dirty to me sweetheart._

He contemplated adding a wink emoji but then thought better of it. It would be his luck that the Sheriff, Peter shivered to himself even just thinking that - _thanks Derek, asshole_ \- would confiscate Stiles’ phone for whatever reason and decide to get a little trigger happy when he was near Peter next. 

_No thank you!_

** Little Spark:  ** Keep it up zombiewolf, i’ve got nothing but time. Time to plot and plan your demise.

__ _Peter: So dramatic. Goodness Stiles, you keep that up and the next gift I give you might be something even you cannot handle._

Deciding he had had enough conversing for today, Peter silenced his phone and pocketed it before leaving his apartment. He needed to do some investigating and what better way to do it than when both the Stilinski men were not currently habitating their residence.

* * *

For being the Sheriff’s home it was amusingly easy to gain access to and Peter hummed lightly to himself as he quietly shut the door behind him. Unlike his nephew he was not so depraved as to break into homes using windows, so plebian.

There was a mustiness to the house that spoke to the absences of both inhabitants and Peter went about opening some windows. No need to expose himself to irritants if he did not have to.

The Sheriff’s bedroom was the first room on his list and Peter grinned to himself thinking of Derek’s reaction if only his nephew could see him now. Peter in the room where surely many of Derek’s recent fantasies had been staged.

Silly pup. He really was _pathetic_. Peter would pity him if he could lower himself to experience such a base emotion.

As he made his way up the stairs, Peter paused to regard the pictures he found along the way. Out of all the numerous photos of Stiles and his father, only one held the face of the woman who had brought the spark into the world.

Claudia Stilinski: girlfriend, wife, mother, child abuser.

Peter wonders at the extent the Sheriff knows of the abuse his son went through at the hands of his wife. If that was the reason for there being only one picture, out of the many adorning the wall, that held her face. 

He finds himself pausing on a picture of Stiles as a child of perhaps 5 or 6 years old, surrounded on all sides by forest with a big grin on his face. He seems right at home in the picture, surrounded by the Earth in such a way as to make it look like the foliage is greeting him.

Peter wonders if even then Stiles’ spark was present, wonders if Stiles has known since way before Deaton decided to impart his wisdom to the young man exactly how _special_ he really was. It would not be a stretch to think that Stiles learned to control his spark, hide it, even as that photo had been taken.

It would give fruit to the bare branches of the idea that Stiles has been hiding many a thing, from everyone, for longer than most people have the conscious ability to understand that presenting a persona to the world is the only way to get by.

It only serves to fascinate Peter all the more, salivating almost with the need to dig his teeth in deep and never let go.

Peter reaches the landing and is quickly able to determine where the Sheriff’s room is. The one that is permeating gun oil among other things.

The upstairs held more of a treasure trove of smells for Peter to take in, learn. Here there were the smells of exhaustion and worry, pain and longing. Dirty laundry could only cover so much and desperation, among other things, bled through with a vicious clarity. 

Stiles’ room, when Peter walked by it, had an unsurprising lack of smell. The spark held everything close to home and he was smart enough to know that the crowd he ran with could garner much from one little sniff. 

Still the temptation to mark it, to put a claim on the otherwise void space was nigh on impossible to ignore. Now was not the time to be leaving trails, Peter would save that for later.

He took one last inhale, taking in the unique smell of the spell Stiles had to have laid to remove any trace of scent and turned to the Sheriff’s room. The bedroom, from what Peter could see from the doorway, seemed to have one use and one use only.

The bed was unkempt but everything was tidy to a point of being sterile. It was as if the Sheriff existed in the room only in the messy lines of the sheets and nothing else. It was a curious portrait of what was probably once a very vibrant man.

It did make Peter wonder what Derek could ever possibly see in the man. Though Peter amused himself with picturing his morose puppy-like nephew and the ghost-like Sheriff functioning in a relationship. It was a trainwreck waiting to happen and Peter would gleefully sit back and watch it all implode.

Stepping into the room revealed nothing he had not seen from the door, down to the smell indicating where the Sheriff so dutifully put his dirty laundry in the hamper beside the closet; the disgusting yellow of it suggesting it was an ode to the late Claudia Stilinski.

Peter almost wanted to take it with him. Empty it of the clothes to bring with him the evidence that the woman who had so changed the young man who so enraptured him had, at one time, indeed existed beyond the mere incubator for life.

He scoffed at himself for the strange quirk and continued to peruse the room. His eyes lit upon the closet door, a bland white that had once probably been a garish yellow to match the laundry bin. The door was firmly shut and that piqued Peter’s curiosity.

If the Sheriff hung up his uniform, which knowing Stiles the young spark probably did it for the man, why then would the door be closed. Almost a warning to keep out.

What dirty little secrets could possibly be hiding in a spot that was so open to Stiles yet the Sheriff did not feel necessary to hide away beyond the closing of a flimsy door?

“Well I just must find out.” Peter grinned, speaking aloud to the empty room.

If anyone were to see him moving throughout the room, they would most likely say Peter skipped towards the closet, but as there was noone to view him Peter had no need to pretend he was not extremely giddy to discover what treasures lay buried behind the door.

The closet held what Peter expected, rows of neatly ironed uniforms and buttoned shirts. While Stiles held no reserves about wearing two and three day old dirty shirts, he was fastidious in his need to make sure his father was well looked after. 

Nothing seemed out of place, everything shades of the same colour - everything you would expect from a man stuck in time. All of it blending together except for one thing.

A black box shoved haphazardly on the top shelf near the back on the left side. It was so starkly different from everything else in the closet that Peter immediately knew it held exactly what he was looking for.

Peter easily pulled the box down and was surprised at the weight of it, he smirked at the thought of what he might find. 

Removing it from the closet gave Peter a sense of accomplishment: now there was nothing out of place in the cookie-cutter closet from hell. 

Now that he had what he was looking for, Peter felt no need to stay. Neither of the Stilinskis would be coming back anytime soon, however Peter wanted the privacy of his own home to unearth the secrets he was bound to find inside the box that was most likely meant to be forgotten.

* * *

The last time Peter had felt this excited about something he had been ripping his claws through Kate Argent’s neck and revelling in the gurgling sound the air made as it escaped alongside the blood pouring out her throat. His heartbeat was slightly elevated and the sadistic smile he kept well under wraps around the pack was in full bloom.

Peter was, to put it simply, elated.

The box looked like an overly large black shoe box and the lid lifted simply, nothing locking it in place to keep it from roving eyes. 

At the very top was what appeared to be a blanket. One of those security blankets that anxious little children sometimes carried around with them years passed when it was socially accepted. Peter mused that Stiles would be one of those children, most likely spoiled rotten by two claustrophobically loving parents who did not know when to say no.

There were holes pockmarked throughout, as if little hands had rung the blanket between them repeatedly. It was dirty, unkempt in a manner that told Peter it was put there after Mrs. Stilinski’s death, used well passed her last days even.

Removing the blanket from the box, Peter placed it beside the box on the coffee table.

He was back home, comfortable in the knowledge that no one would come looking for him anytime soon. Even his nephew had been surprisingly absent from sending him inane messages since the last one earlier in the day.

Peter was forever grateful for small mercies. 

“Well, hello there.” Peter said, smiling down at the contents of the box.

Here is where the Sheriff’s true sentimentality lay, in these discarded yet not thrown away photos. The photos ranged in size from those that would nicely fit in a wallet to portrait sized photos that most likely used to hold a place of honour - framed along the stairwell wall. 

Here is where Claudia Stilinski’s ghost lived on in vivid colour, smiling placidly up at him from a myriad of photos detailing the unachievable perfect family. Peter would have scoffed at them if he did not know the dirty little secret that these photos did not show.

How from this faked perfection the spark that captivated him so was born. For there was no doubt in Peter’s mind that the child looking up at him - the last vestiges of Stiles’ innocence peeking up at him - and the young man currently stuck in the hospital were two completely different people.

The experiences that must have occurred to change Stiles into the beautifully scarred and terrifying spark he was today made Peter shiver in delight. 

The first few layers of photos seemed rather boring, throw in on top to put them out of sight but otherwise there was nothing remarkable about them. No, it was the photos near the bottom that held the most interest for Peter.

There were the photos that were torn and had, what appeared to be, childlike scribbles gouged deep into their surfaces. These were the photos that spoke to the true depravity of a mind fracturing, so much that the echos were felt years later even by Peter.

His fingers glided over the grooves and traced the impressions, the force speaking to the anger and fear that little Stiles must have been feeling when he turned his wrath upon them. The most damaged photo was not the one that surprised Peter. It would have once been a photo of young Stiles wrapped snuggly in his mother’s arms and yet now was just a picture of the young spark surrounded by blackness, his smiling face a cry for help in the void of loneliness and fear.

The photo that did make Peter raise a brow and sit back was a group shot, the three Stilinski’s captured at the beach - Claudia’s image so scribbled over that the picture had torn clean through in places and Stiles standing apart, drifting almost. Yet it was the Sheriff in the picture, two paces behind his wife and son, whose smiling face was circled in an angry red marker that had Peter pausing.

Nothing else about the Sheriff was touched, even where his hand gripped little Stiles’ tightly. Just the face, circled almost endlessly in a child’s rage? Sadness? Confusion?

Peter wondered just what the Sheriff went through at the hands off his wife when she was spiralling ever downwards. If the abuse that Stiles clearly went through was a trickle down from what the Sheriff just could not contain.

Maybe not even for lack of trying?

With his brain whirring, Peter put the contents back into the box and left it on his coffee table. It was late evening and he had much to think about and plan before he saw Stiles tomorrow.

* * *

It was easy enough to sneak into the hospital room currently occupied by their resident spark and take up vigil by his bedside. Stiles seemed more transparent there, unable to throw up his armor at the drop of a hat when he could not even pee with dignity.

Peter watches Stiles sleep. It fascinates him that for someone so paranoid, the spark seems completely oblivious to his surroundings. Relaxed to a degree Peter would not have thought possible.

It gives Peter the chance to test out some theories.

He coughs and waits, eyes narrowed on Stiles’ face for any hint of a reaction. The stillness of the body on the bed is unnerving to Peter, so unlike the spark’s normal tossing and turning in his sleep, but Peter can smell the drugs dripping into the IV attached to Stiles’ arm.

Peter muses that it must be killing Stiles to be so buzzed as to be unresponsive to potential threats.

He coughs again, louder this time and observes slight movement behind Stiles’ eyelids. So he is aware but most likely in dreamland. Just deep enough for Peter to get one test in before Stiles is likely to wake. Perfect.

Peter flips up the middle finger of his left hand and watches as one sharp claw grows. He tenses his body, ready to spring back should Stiles break through the drug induced haze more quickly than Peter anticipates - though unlikely, Peter always plans for every eventuality.

Uncovering Stiles’ left foot, Peter glances once more at his drugged induced slumbering pack member, before dragging the claw down the exposed skin. Peter does not dig deep enough to open a wound, merely bringing blood to the surface in a satisfying line of blooming red.

To any person with a normal pain tolerance, what Peter was doing would definitely cause them to flinch away if not wake up fully. Like scraping one's leg against a low lying branch while traipsing through the forest, the sting should be enough to bring about some kind of awareness. Yet Stiles just continues to lay quietly, eyelids roving as he dreams away.

Even drugged as he was the pain should have woken Stiles enough that it banished the dreams momentarily and forced him to move his leg away from the contact. Anything beyond the stillness that greeted Peter’s attempts.

Peter contemplated Stiles as he retracted his claw. The drugs were not so much that the spark should be coma like, merely sedated enough that sleeping seemed a better idea to waking; yet, nothing should have prevented Stiles from registering the pain Peter had most certainly produced, at least inasmuch as it was an irritant - a twitch or grumble, some kind of outward sign that Stiles acknowledged the slight burn of pain.

Peter sighed as his phone pinged, momentarily pulling his attention from the invalid in front of him.

**Nephew: Where are you?**

_Peter: Busy._

**Nephew: Doing what?**

_Peter: While petulance certainly suits you, do you truly believe that it is an attractive trait? I’m sure that is exactly what Mr. Stilinski looks for in a partner, a petulant brat._

**Nephew: _Peter, I’ve told you! It’s not like that with the Sheriff._**

“If you don’t fucking shut off the sound on your phone in the next second, I will eviscerate you.”

Peter glanced up from his phone to be greeted by barely opened amber eyes glaring at him from a sleepy face. “Ah, sleeping beauty finally graces me with her presence, and to think she did not even need a kiss to wake her. What a shame.” Peter smirked at the rude gesture Stiles responded with.

He exaggerated the motions of silencing his phone before turning his full attention to Stiles. 

“How long have you been here?” Stiles finally asked, voice gruff. He could probably use some water.

“How long have you been awake?” Peter countered.

“It was your stupid phone that woke me up, genius.” Stiles grumbled as he resettled himself, eyes searching until they lit upon the water jug on the table at the end of his bed. “Hey, asshole, get me some water.”

“My, my, where _are_ your manners young man?” Peter tutted at Stiles. He seemed to be doing a lot of tutting lately, he realised with distaste. 

Stiles did not deign to reply, instead closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. Peter contemplated the gesture, wondering how much of it was for show.

“Headache?” Peter asked

Stiles gave him the stink eye. “Well, you are in my room.”

Laughing, Peter cocked his head to the side to observe Stiles. There was a barely noticeable tension around his eyes but otherwise still nothing to indicate the level of pain that Stiles could be in. After being shot and then having a surgery to remove the bullet, it would only be natural to be in pain. Except, Stiles seemed to take it as a personal flaw that he _was_ showing that he was in pain.

Deciding in a moment of sympathy to help out, Peter poured a glass of water for Stiles and handed it to the spark. There was something like gratitude in Stiles’ eyes but it was quickly hidden by the cup as Stiles tipped his head back and gulped down the entire glass. He kept his eyes closed as he lowered the glass, slowly swallowing the water.

Peter wondered if Stiles was internally following the path the cool water was taking as it made it’s way down his esophagus and into his stomach. Considering he’d been shot in the stomach, that he had a large incision that was still a bright pink across his abdomen, the water landing heavily in his stomach could not have been comfortable. And, yet, it seemed to relax Stiles considerably.

Curious.

“Better?” Peter couldn’t help asking. Everything about Stiles drew him like a moth to the proverbial flame--not that Peter tried very hard to fight against the tug.

Stiles hummed his agreement and finally opened his eyes again. He watched Peter with an unnerving, _knowing_ stare. “What’s your snooping found?”

Rarely did people have the ability to surprise Peter anymore but Stiles continued to pull the rug out from under him. Stiles was just as cunning as Peter was, had clearly been living a double life for most of his life, and likely had an idea of what Peter was going to do before he did it.

Peter liked that in a muse.

“That your mommy dearest wasn’t so dear to you after all.”

Not even a flinch. Oh, Peter could just clap for Stiles’ performance. It was such a delicious sight, that complete lack of emotion. It meant that Stiles was working extra hard to hide his reaction. Peter desperately wanted to know the effect his words were having on Stiles. He guessed he would have to push harder.

“It also enlightened me to your near zealous need to keep your father healthy and safe.”

Stiles growled. “You fucking leave him out of this.”

Ah, there we are.

“He’s an adult, and your father, you think he wouldn’t want to know?” Peter lifted a brow, questioning and goading all in one. If only a smirk wouldn’t give him away, Peter would let one break out gloriously across his face.

The temperature in the room spiked and momentarily Peter was transported back to the Hale house, back to temperatures so hot his skin was melting off and breathing was like drinking lava. Sweat instantly broke out across his brow, on the nape of his neck and under his arms. It was gone just as quick as it came and Peter had to incline his head at Stiles.

“Don’t fuck with me, _wolf_. I know your deepest, darkest fears and I will use them against you if you continue to push.”

Peter could respect that. The tightness in his jeans respected it as well, and inappropriately urged Peter to continue.

“If you have a question, ask it.”

Peter chuckled. “And you’ll be so obliging as to answer?”

Stiles sighed. “If I don’t you’ll just dig deeper and I’ll be forced to kill you. I couldn’t take away Derek’s only living relative, even if it is you.”

“You know my nephew has a crush on your father.”

Stiles pursed his lips. Peter was at once overjoyed and frustrated that he couldn’t tell if the look was in amusement or annoyance.

“If you’re not going to get to the point I’m going to call your nephew and have him come annoy you out of here.”

“Fine,” Peter raised his hands in mock surrender. “fine. Was your mother a spark?”

Stiles’ brows creased and he regarded Peter with a hint of respect. “You’re the first person to have made that connection.”

Peter finally allowed himself a small smile. “She’s the reason your dad doesn’t know about the abuse you suffered at her hands.”

“Why do you care?”

A non-answer which answered Peter’s question well enough.

“Stiles, you’re not naive. You know I’m fascinated by you, that I’ve been drawn to you since I bit Scott and realised what a much tastier morsel you were. You’re the last bite on my plate that someone snatched before I could savour.”

The look of absolute boredom on Stiles’ face as Peter basically confessed to him made Peter want to choke Stiles just to get a reaction out of the spark. God but Peter was aroused.

“I snatched it away, if I remember correctly.”

Peter bared his fangs as his eyes flared bright blue. “Yes, I had that pretty pulse pressed to my lips and everything but your words said _yes_.”

“But consent is everything to you, isn’t it?”

“That surprises you?”

Stiles crossed his arms. “You killed your niece and bit my best friend. Then you proceeded to chase me around, foaming at the mouth like some rabid thing that would have been better off being put down. So, yeah, it surprises me.”

The conversation had obviously taken a turn and, as ever, Stiles’ plan was trying to come to fruition. The first place trophy that Peter had spied in Stiles’ room popped into his head, for a chess tournament back when Stiles was seven. 

“You’ve always been my one exception, Stiles. Now answer my question.”

Stiles smirked. “I don’t recall you asking a question.”

This exasperating, exhilarating man--Peter couldn’t wait to have him. Blood would definitely be shed, Peter relished the thought.

Footsteps sounded faintly in the hallway and Peter had a good guess as to who it could be. Visiting hours had likely just started and though he commanded a lot of power, the Sheriff likely used his mornings to get as much work done as possible so he could spend the visiting hours with Stiles. Which was why he was only showing up now.

It didn’t stop Peter from asking his question though the man was just outside the room.

“Did your mother erase your father’s memories of her abusing you?”

“Yes.”

A wounded gasp sounded from the door. Stiles’ eyes went wide as he head whipped over to gape at his father and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. He’d managed to turn the tables on Stiles. Would show the little spark to play with him.

Besides, Peter needed to get away to think. Stiles had revealed much with what he both had and hadn’t said. He slipped out of the room, stepping around the Sheriff as the man stumbled into the chair Peter had just vacated. The little tete-a-tete that was about to happen was likely to be painful and as much as Peter would have liked to stay, he left.

* * *

Back at home, Peter took time to make himself a latte and ponder what Stiles had told him. It was no surprise that Stiles had been abused, it was writ in the fact that Stiles never mentioned here and just how protective he was of his father. The fact that Stiles didn’t blame his father for not protecting him when he was younger also spoke to the disturbing idea that the Sheriff was also abused by his wife.

Stiles had turned that inability to protect himself and turned it three-fold onto his father, going overboard to protect the man. Literally going head to head against darach to save his father, and an Alpha pack, and a spark whose mind had started to deteriorate?

It was food for thought.

All that Stiles had revealed hadn’t explained his seeming inability to feel pain. Even getting shot hadn’t slowed him down, it was only after he was confined to a hospital bed that Stiles even accepted that he was injured.

Did it have something to do with being a spark?

Peter was so absorbed in his thoughts that it was only the pinging of his phone that made him realise a few hours had passed as he mulled over the puzzle that was Stiles. He picked up his phone and glanced at the new message.

_**Unknown Number: Thank you.** _

Only one person could have obtained his number and also have something to thank him for. Peter quickly changed the name and save the number to his contacts.

_Peter: You are most welcome._

_**Father-in-law: I know you didn’t do it for me, that you’re playing some game, but I mean it. Thank you. He never would have told me. This doesn’t mean we’re square but that’s twice you’ve saved my son and that’s not something I’ll easily forget.** _

Peter sighed, he hated being recognized for doing something _good_. It was much more satisfying working in the shadows to accomplish things. Alas, some things necessitated openness.

_Peter: I care for your son. I know that’s not something you want to hear but I’m invested and I have the funds the back it up._

_**Father-in-law: I’m not sure you do but if you continue to help my son, we won’t have any issues.** _

**__** _Peter: 10-4_

There was something to be said for instant gratification. He was playing the long game with Stiles but it was nice to be on even footing with his future father-in-law. If he could continue to show the man that he only meant good for Stiles, at least outwardly, then it would make conquering the spark 

all the easier.

Barely a minute went by before his phone pinged again.

Little Spark: God, you’re an asshole.

_Peter: Can you honestly tell me you don’t feel better for having told your father?_

Little Spark: He shouldn’t have to deal with it! I handled it. It was better before!!

_Peter: Stop with the bullshit. It wasn’t better._

Little Spark: I hate you.

_Peter: Ah, sweetheart, that’s nothing new._

Little Spark: Don’t come see me tomorrow.

_Peter: Darling, I’d like to see you try to stop me._

* * *

Peter knew he shouldn’t have goaded Stiles, should have stopped pushing after interfering in the Stilinski family relationship, alas he hadn’t. And now, stuck outside in the hallway at the hospital, unable to get into Stiles’ hospital room, he was paying the price.

He knew Stiles was smarting, over being stuck in the hospital and having his secrets revealed. It didn’t mean that Peter like the consequences--normally they weren’t so personal, or, at least, the consequences rarely affected him the way they were meant to. 

Until it involved Mieczyslaw Stilinski.

He sighed and left the hospital. He wasn’t going to stand around all day waiting for Stiles to get over himself. Though he couldn’t see Stiles in person, that didn’t mean he couldn’t still talk to him. Peter pulled out his phone as he made his way out to his car.

_Peter: Your mother took away your father’s memories. Does that mean you cannot give them back?_

The drive to the hospital was a short one as Peter lived downtown. At first, after he had managed to escape the hospital - and he was able to conquer the wolf and come back to himself - Peter had bought a small bungalow on the outskirts of town, close to the woods. It wasn’t near the old Hale house but close enough to echo a time when he felt truly safe and far enough away from the hospital where he’d been captive in his own body for six years.

Then, of course, Derek had gone and bought a plot of land nearby and ruined Peter’s quiet life. He hated being near the pack of younglings, their wanderings bring them too close to his house for comfort, and so he’d bought a condo downtown. He still owned the condo, Stiles liked to use it on occasion after the pack had had a late night and the spark didn’t feel like driving home, and the pack was being too loud. 

Peter made sure he stayed at the bungalow on those nights as well. Listening to Stiles’ breathing soothed Peter to sleep. It was a secret pleasure of his.

Now though, with Stiles in the hospital, he went to his condo. It meant he was closer to the spark but it also meant he wasn’t going to be bothered by Derek or the rest of the band of misfits. Peter didn’t have a message from Stiles when he got home but he wasn’t expecting Stiles to respond so soon anyway.

It was ridiculous being so gone on Stiles. Part of it was the chase but most of it was that, deep down, they were compatible. Jokes came easier with Stiles and if there was anyone who would understand him without him having to explain for hours what he meant, it was Stiles. They spent a lot of time together, were close in a way that Peter had not been with anyone since his sister had been taken from him.

Tal’s would have loved Stiles. She would have comforted Peter and made sure he hadn’t been left behind.

Unfortunately, none of Tal’s children had inherited her loyalty, all instead following in their father’s footsteps. James, Tal’s husband, had up and broken their mating one day when he’d come across a younger and less hardened werewolf. Up and left his pack and family for a piece of tail who’d only been interested in him for the prestige of the Hale name and land.

Even though she’d brought Derek with her, Laura had left Cora behind. Cora had been hiding in the bushes, watching as the fire destroyed her pack, fearful of the hunters in the woods, so she’d run and hid. Laura easily could have found her, _should_ have felt the throbbing beat of Cora’s link to her, but instead she’d ignored it.

Peter hated that he’d killed Laura, that he’d taken away one of his final links to his older sister, but Laura wasn’t the niece Peter had watched grow. She’d been bitter and reluctant, both as an Alpha and as a sister.

She’d been non-existent as a niece.

Stiles was loyal. He had it in spades and was loyal to those that didn’t deserve it. The spark was loyal to a mother that no longer deserved it, if ever she had; Loyal to a friend who forgot about him the moment something new came strolling in to town; Loyal to a father who couldn’t protect him.

Stiles was everything that Peter had lost in the fire and he wanted, so he was going to have.

Little Spark: If we’re playing 20 questions, you’re answering some of mine.

Peter smiled at the message. He knew Stiles wouldn’t be able to resist for long. They were drawn to each other.

_Peter: Of course. I believe you still owe me an answer and then I will oblige you with one._

Little Spark: I am rolling my eyes at you, hard.

_Peter: I would be disappointed if you weren’t!_

Little Spark: A Spark’s power is in their belief, as you know. My mom, well her memory started going spotty. She lost moments. In one of her more lucid periods, I think she tried to will those memories out of his mind but something went wrong because not all the memories are gone, only chunks. So my dad’s memory is like a blanket with holes in it. I cannot just pull the pieces back together.

_Peter: But wouldn’t that theory work even if she had managed to take the entirety of the memories?_

Little Spark: Yes. Now you owe me two answers.

_Peter: Of course. Ask away._

Little Spark: If you could have Alpha powers back, would you want them?

Peter’s heart stopped. It was such a loaded question, one that Stiles had probably been wanting to ask him for quite some time, and he wasn’t fully sure how to answer. At least, however, he could take up the two answers he owe Stiles with this one question.

_Peter: Yes and no._

Little Spark: I know what you’re doing but whatever. Elaborate. It counts as your second answer.

Peter grinned to himself. 

_Peter: Yes I want the Alpha powers back because I think Scott is an incompetent Alpha and is making a fool of himself and our pack. If I have to be a part of this pack, I want it run by someone who’s a leader, someone like you. And no, I don’t want the powers back because I know myself, I corrupt too easily. I like the blood and shadows, doing what needs to be done without being accountable. I like being the right hand who whispers in the ear of the one in charge and yet still gets to protect the pack._

Little Spark: Alright, come back to the hospital. I’m fucking tired of texting.

Mission accomplished, Peter thought to himself. Sure he didn’t like to bare his soul but Stiles wasn’t just anyone and, like Peter, he used knowledge like power and would do something with the information he had just gained.

The hospital room was empty, save for Stiles, when Peter got back. The Sheriff had probably needed time to digest what he had learned from Stiles, and likely down a bottle of whisky to come to terms with what his wife had done to their only child.

“Since you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful.”

Peter stepped fully into the room. “Oh?”

“Yes, come and take my pain away. I know you’re itching to do it anyway, and at least this way my brain won’t go all fuzzy.”

Peter didn’t move. “I’m itching to do it?”

Stiles snorted. “Please, you’re as easy to read as an open book.”

“I feel quite put out by that comment,” Peter said, affecting an over exaggerated pout.

“Fine. To me, you’re easy to read. But that’s probably because I’ve had to learn to watch people from a young age. And you’re not trying all that hard to hide from me.”

Peter leered at Stiles as he finally crossed over to the hospital bed. “Keep talking dirty to me and these babies won’t be held accountable for their actions.” Peter wiggled his fingers where his claws were poking through.

There was anticipation building in Peter’s gut, a tingling sensation already zipping through his veins. He wanted to feel Stiles’ pain, to touch what level of force was too much for someone so clearly used to living in pain. It wasn’t just the gunshot, or the surgery.

Peter felt like Stiles was finally acknowledging his pain and now that it was at the fore of his brain he could no longer ignore it. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, ignoring that he was starting to get hard, Peter clasped Stiles’ right hand in his.

“Do it,” Stiles whispered, daring and challenging, dominating.

Peter opened his senses and _pulled_. Electricity raced through him, singing his nerves as it tore through his body. Peter gasped, mouth hanging open as shock after shock rocked his body. It was pain akin to burning alive but instead of killing him, it invigorated him. It was heady and alive, completely unlike when he’d taken Stiles’ pain in the forest.

Stiles gently pulled his hand out of Peter’s grasp, a relaxed smile on his face, almost as if--Peter sniffed the air, the scent of arousal burned through his nostrils and he smelled Stiles’ release in the air. Peter himself was closer to coming, his cock erect and aching in his skin tight jeans. He wanted to bury his face in Stiles’ neck, suck in greedy lungfuls of the spark but he managed to contain himself, instead staggering to the chair behind himself and collapsing into it.

“Welcome to my world, Peter,” Stiles said with complete sincerity, his smile still firmly in place.

Peter sucked in air, trying to calm his racing heart. His entire right arm was numb but if Stiles asked him to take more pain he would do it in a heartbeat. He was addicted.

“That wasn’t like before.”

“No,” Stiles agree. “it wasn’t. What you just felt? That’s my mother’s power.”

Peter rubbed at his erection with his left hand, gently rocking his hips up into the sensation. He desperately needed to come.

“That’s not possible,” Peter shot back. God, though, if it was true? That would mean Stiles’ powers were double, maybe even tripled or quadrupled, and Peter wanted to posses it.

Stiles giggled, his relief from the pain evident. “You’re right, it isn’t possible, and yet, my mother somehow managed it. Like I said, she wasn’t right in the last couple of years of her life, and she didn’t want to die though she knew it was coming. She hated that I was born like she was, I think because she worried that what was happening to her could happen to me. My mother knew she was sick long before her symptoms started to show.”

It was sick and wrong but Peter was passed caring. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock, moaning in pleasure as he wrapped his left hand around himself. It was as if Stiles’ power had somehow been transferred to him because he still felt his nerves firing with pain that was blurring to pleasure.

“I think she hated, too, that my dad loved me so much. She wasn’t a nice person.” Stiles laughed. “But anyway, she tried so many times in those last few months to give me her power. It fucking hurt and I hated her for it, still do. Over and over again she tried to force her will into me but that’s not how a spark’s power is supposed to work. But that’s the thing about spark’s, our power works with belief, and Claudia had that in spades--warped though it was at the end.”

Peter was barely listening to Stiles. There was a compulsion pushing him along and he jacked his cock in an effort to find release. He desperately needed to come.

“The day she died is the day she succeeded. She managed to will her powers into me and ever since I’ve been contending with her powers, trying to control the tornado inside me. It’s sand continuously scoring at my insides, cutting me open again and again.”

Peter tipped his head back, so close to the edge. He’d never felt this unmoored before, at least not sexually. His orgasm felt just out of reach and he growled in frustration. A sudden touch to the tip of his cock had his eyes flying open and he froze, staring into Stiles’ amber eyes.

“Come for me, Peter.”

He came silently, all the air sucked out of his body as his orgasm hit. It hurt, agony tearing through him followed by sweet, cool relief. Tears sprang in his eyes as he melted into the chair, completely unable to even bat Stiles’ exploring fingers away from his cock.

“We’re doing that again,” Peter gasped out, lifting his head just enough to catch Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles grinned. “Of course we are. You don’t think I told you all that just for kicks, did you?”

Peter glared at Stiles.

“Oh, my wolf, you don’t get it, do you?”

Peter raised a brow at the spark.

“You just couldn’t leave your nose out of it, had to keep sniffing around until you got your answer. And now you’re mine. Can’t you feel it?”

Peter closed his eyes, mind reeling. He still felt bowled over by his orgasm and the pain that still radiated throughout his body thanks to draining it from Stiles. It was there, though, the connection Stiles was talking about. Not quite a mate bond but not a pack bond either, something different and deeper.

It was a soulbond.

“Thanks to mother dearest, I was left vulnerable to the damn Nogitsune. Though we managed to expel it, it’s taint found a likeness in the powers that my mother forced upon me. And that taint has always been drawn to you. I tried to protect you, Peter, but you just couldn’t leave it be. And now you’ll never be free.”

Peter could feel horror spreading through him but deeper yet was a sense of coming home. The two emotions warred with each other as Peter tried to come to terms with what had just happened.

“How?” He managed to ask.

“Sex-magic, crude but effective.”

Peter swallowed. “I see.”

“I am sorry, Peter. I tried to stop it but it was inevitable. You heard my no in that parking garage all those years ago for the lie it was. I wanted you then even if I was more scared of my darkness calling to yours than I was anything else. I don’t know why I was scared though because right now? This is the most balanced I’ve been since my mother started to lose her mind.” 

Stiles’ hand finally stopped it’s maddening caressing of Peter’s cock.

Peter’s mind whirred over everything Stiles had told him, finally alighting on one thing. “Why did you ask me about being an Alpha again?”

Stiles smiled and it wasn’t a pleasant thing though Peter admired it. Peter wasn’t repulsed by the soulbond, actually felt anchored and _wanted_ like he hadn’t felt since before the fire, but he knew it would take some time to adjust to his new reality. At least it meant Stiles now belonged to him just as he belonged to Stiles.

“Because it’s about time Beacon Hills had an Alpha worthy of the legacy it holds. I wanted to make sure you would stand by my side when I did what I needed to do.”

Peter nodded, puzzle pieces clicking into place as his mind assimilated this new information.

“For now, Peter, go back home. Tomorrow’s a new day and I’ll need you well rested for what I have in mind.”

Pushing to his feet, Peter tucked his cock back into his pants. He’d have to visit the washroom before he left to clean up the mess on his pants. Leaning over Stiles on the bed, he nipped Stiles’ lower lip before kissing him viciously. Peter pulled back before the kiss could be deepened.

“When you’re out of here I want this sealed in bloody bites while I fuck you on my bed.”

Stiles continued to grin. “Of course.”

Peter nodded before turning to head out the door. He still needed to think but his fate was sealed.

“Oh, and don’t think this means I’ll tolerate you being an asshole to Scott! He is still my best friend, after all!” Stiles called to his retreating back, laughing as Peter ignored his comment.

Tomorrow would certainly be an interesting day.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think.
> 
> ~ M


End file.
